


When

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The automat appears warm from where you stand. It’s busy today; customers are attracted to the heat of the diner. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You remember the first time stepping foot in that place.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She knew your order immediately: earl grey, lemon, no milk. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>It doesn’t matter, but it mattered to you and you looked up at her and the world kind of halted. Paused. The earth needed a second to breathe with you, and it hurt how a small creature could carry such joy; even after a plague of blood and defeat. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You fell in love so tremendously fast it was a blow to your stomach. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>She is sunshine; the melt of a freeze. Some gentle drug, easing you into a permanent state of euphoria. She smiled, and suddenly, you breathed. You realise home is not a place after all; home is a person. Home is safe.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	When

You hang up. Immediately. 

As if the telephone scalds your flesh, and you _drop_. 

There is gunfire in your ears. 

And the stench of corpses.

You redial the telephone number in your head. Over and over. 

Walk away.

 

 

 

 

‘When was your last Christmas?’

It is the most depressing question you have ever been asked. Offended, you throw a glare at him and he doesn’t mention the topic anymore. 

You don’t talk about Christmas.

The one holiday you detest. 

It is not Christmas when the letter is shoved into your hands. When you’re bloodstained, drowning in the dirt of war, when you’re shivering, gripping tightly onto your jacket, gasping for warmth. 

It is not Christmas when you’re alone, surrounded by death.

War stole what little faith you once held.

 

 

 

 

There is a statue of Steven Rogers, in New York.

Decorated with Christmas lights. They decorate him, as if he is an idol. Something to be disposed of. They insult him, his character, who he _really_ is, throwing tinsel and snowflake lights across his body. 

You want to vomit.

That night, when you’re stranded in a hotel, cigarette smoke passing your lips, and you taste rum and blood, she calls you.

You allow the telephone to dial out.

 

 

 

 

 

Colonel Philips sends you a card.

Neglects to sign it. But you recognise the handwriting and you squeeze the card in your fist. 

Outside, children are rolling around in the snow, throwing white powder, screaming and yelling and laughing, cheeks rosy, and toes cold. 

You slam the window shut.

 

 

 

 

 

A body is discovered, but your Chief doesn’t care. It’s Christmas, he says. The body can wait, he says. You don’t know whether to burst into tears or laugh––cackle, giggle, just _lose yourself_. It is Christmas so death can wait.

Instead you walk away.

You’ve grown a talent in that, lately.

(A habit.)

Thompson criticises you behind your back. You ignore him. Ignore his jokes, his patronising smirk––ignore how the war has killed him too.

It is a Friday night. 

You’re lonely, undernourished, and cigarettes keep you company. 

There is a large mansion waiting for your return, and a lovely lady within, smiling and beautiful, and you _can’t_ ––

You choose the hotel again. 

Drink a little. Smoke a little. Pop off your heels, and sob.

It’s after the war, and everything is _slow_ ; everything is _torture_. Everything is tedious and dry and dead and in recovery and you can’t _fucking heal_. Your scabs are open and bare, and you’re suffocating in this grief you can’t quite place. 

She calls you. Eight times.

Your heart bursts, and you pick up on the last ring. 

She’s breathing (you don’t know why you care so much, but she’s breathing; she’s alive) and she’s quiet, and that’s odd. She’s never quiet. You don’t like her quiet. You hate it, and you’re not sure if it’s the fatigue, the disgusting Christmas lights around Steve Roger’s fragile body, or the fact you’re ruining everything you love, but you can’t talk.

It’s up to her.

For once, your dominance slips and you don’t know if you care.

‘Are you safe?’

You could be anywhere, drinking anywhere, fucking anywhere, but all she cares about is if _you’re safe_. She doesn’t expect you to return home at five o’clock, she doesn’t expect you to join her for dinner, she doesn’t expect her best friend to be present—

Angie is used to your absence by now.

All she wants is to be comforted in the fact you are safe.

‘Good night.’ 

_You don’t deserve her._

There’s a moment. 

A fraction of a second in which you endure her agony.

But you hang up before she can express herself. You interrupt her sadness, and it’s destructive. 

It is Christmas, and you’re alone, and maybe it’s best that way.

 

 

 

 

The automat appears warm from where you stand. It’s busy today; customers are attracted to the heat of the diner. 

You remember the first time stepping foot in that place.

She knew your order immediately: earl grey, lemon, no milk. 

It doesn’t matter, but it mattered to you and you looked up at her and the world kind of _halted_. Paused. The earth needed a second to breathe with you, and it hurt how a small creature could carry such joy; even after a plague of blood and defeat. 

You fell in love so tremendously fast it was a blow to your stomach. 

She is sunshine; the melt of a freeze. Some gentle drug, easing you into a permanent state of euphoria. She smiled, and suddenly, you _breathed_. You realise home is not a place after all; home is a person. Home is _safe_. And you find yourself seeking her, arriving at the diner, every day, just to see that smile, those eyes, the skip in her step as she rushes over to you.

With Angie, you were a person.

Not a soldier.

Not an agent.

Not a murderer.

Not a woman.

But a person.

She gives you everything, and you’re overwhelmed.

 

 

 

 

One day left ‘till Christmas. 

Neither you or your very few friends write Christmas cards, except Jarvis. You don’t open the card; decide to forget about it altogether.

She doesn’t ring your hotel room anymore.

Howard mocks you; he taunts you. Says you’re scared and it’s time to grow up.

You scoff.

Says he!

But he’s right, and maybe you’re both a little _fucked_ , but at least you both have someone. He hurries off to his ladylove, and you stay put, holding your mug of tea. Thing is, Howard isn’t scared like you are; his fears are directed at other things.

Other possibilities. 

You imagine Steve sitting opposite, skinny and pale, and smiling. 

You imagine what he would want.

At the thought, you slide down your seat a little, raise the mug to your lips, and wish to disappear. 

 

 

 

 

She’s fast asleep. She’s a child sometimes in your eyes, and you know she’s fast asleep by now. But you’re old and you’re tired of waiting, and you’re tired of _yourself_. The night is chilly, the Christmas lights are frightening, and you hate the cheer of winter.

Quietly, silent, you unlock the door and step through.

Heat massages your face, strokes down your body, and you shudder. An open fire burns fiercely, and you see two stockings above. One for Angie, and one for you.

A christmas tree in the corner. Relatively small, decorated in tinsel and baubles. A little overdecorated, but it wouldn’t be Angie if it was plain and blank.

She's not like you.

You drop your coat onto the settee. 

It’s warm. So warm. Cosy. Safe.

Your cheeks redden from the sudden temperature. Your fingers aren’t cold anymore. Your chapped lips stretch slightly, almost into a smile. There aren’t loud noises in here, no scary lights, no haunting faces or horrid voices.

‘Oh.’

Her voice is quiet, soft, and a sound you have dearly missed and you turn to her, startled.

‘I meant to call.’

‘You didn’t call.’ Her voice wavers; your distance has made an impact.

‘I meant to.’

There is no fight in her. Angie doesn’t fight; she’s too gentle, too loving, too kind. She doesn’t fight you, and you don’t know if you want her to. Want her to raise her voice, yell at you, _scream_ at you for vanishing and coming back when you please.

But this house doesn’t have raised voices; doesn’t share any hate.

This house is your home, your only refuge.

She.

_She_ is your home.

And she doesn’t raise her voice at you, she doesn’t criticise you, she doesn’t frown at you; everything is okay, everything _will_ be okay.

(She will wait.)

This is why you fell in love.

Because, for the first time in your hectic life, you know it’s going to be okay.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I forgive you, Pegs.’

And that’s that. No arguments, no grudges, no resentment.

She walks over and helps you out of your jacket, and you watch her raise the jacket to her face, inhaling your scent and you pretend not to notice. Your heart skips. 

‘Are you hungry?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘Thirsty?’

‘No, dear.’

‘Can I get ya anything?’

You exhale, rub your eye with the heel of your palm, and smile. A lazy, tired smile. 

It doesn’t take much thought.

‘I came to be with you.’

Angie’s expression softens, and her smile is full, relieved, happy, sad, and _yours_. 

‘I didn’t want to spend this year alone. Not again.’ 

You pause, hold her gaze, and something inside you calms. In the midst of your restlessness, you could fall asleep. You could stop, let her hold you, and fall asleep. A deep, long sleep––one you haven’t endured in years. 

‘If you’re all right with that.’

You know it is; you never doubt Angie’s generosity.

And so when she kisses you, you’re not startled, you’re not frightened, you’re not upset.

When she kisses you, her touch lighter than a feather, warmer than your heart, all is as it should be.

 


End file.
